


Too Easy

by spankingfemme



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bondage, Bottom!Ramsay, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Top!Sansa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-27
Updated: 2017-03-22
Packaged: 2018-07-18 15:41:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7321051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spankingfemme/pseuds/spankingfemme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Warning! Dark fic! Rape/non-con, anal sex, bondage. This fic is a lovely gift from my fantastical hubby! He loves me so! I’m floating on cloud nine! =D This takes place at the end of S6E9 a little alternate ending for those who wanted to see Ramsay get a little more comeuppance than he did *evil grin*)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

(Warning! Dark fic! Rape/non-con, anal sex, bondage. This fic is a lovely gift from my fantastical hubby! He loves me so! I’m floating on cloud nine! =D This takes place at the end of S6E9 a little alternate ending for those who wanted to see Ramsay get a little more comeuppance than he did *evil grin*)

 

Too Easy

 

Ramsay Bolton raised his head slowly, pain blossoming in several locations throughout his face. He could taste the coppery, salty mix of his own blood and noted quickly that he could not fully open his left eye. John Snow had pummeled him into the ground with a fury borne of his loss at Ramsay’s hands, and Ramsay recalled only dimly why he had stopped short of breaking his head open upon the cobblestone of the castle courtyard.

  

 She had been there; Sansa Stark.

 

John had taken one look at her and the hate in her eyes and he had stopped. Ramsay had taken in a glimpse of that deep loathing before, when she had promised him that he would die today, out on the field before the battle yesterday. He had not realized then that it was no empty threat, but a prediction based on knowledge that she kept even from her brother so as to ensure Ramsay’s defeat on the field.

  

 Ramsay’s eyes wandered around the room he was in; steel bars blocked the way in front of him in the form of a massive gate. To his sides were smaller doors, each also barred, allowing him to look inside at the shadowed forms lurking there, watching him with eyes that reflected the torch light that leaked into the room through the gate from sconces on the walls outside.

 

 Hay lay strewn about here and there, as sometimes his hounds would track it into the main room of the kennel upon their paws. It was dark, so he had to assume that he had fallen to unconsciousness for some few hours, since his combat with Snow had been in the morning.  

 

Then he realized that someone was standing out in the courtyard beyond the gate. Not just anyone, either; it was her. 

 

“Sansa,” Ramsay croaked, clearing the blood from his throat so that he could speak, “Hello, Sansa.”  

 

She didn’t say anything, and her face was impassive, hiding the hatred he had seen in her before. He smiled; she was trying not to let him get under her skin. They all tried not to let him get under their skin, his victims, but he always managed. He had a reputation to uphold; there was a reason the Bolton banner depicted a flayed man.  

 

He glanced around at the kennel, “So this is where I shall be staying now…?” He shook his head, “No… I think we shall be parting ways soon… but you should know you can never kill me; I’m part of you now.”  

 

Sansa replied quickly but coolly; a statement ready for him, perhaps, “Your words shall disappear… your house shall disappear… your name shall disappear… all memory of you shall disappear.”  

 

Ramsay looked to his right as he heard a growling sound. The room filled with similar growls and his brow finally creased with real worry. Fortunately, the kennel doors were closed, but as he watched the starving hounds paw at the space under them he began to realize what fate Sansa had planned for him.  

 

Ramsay looked back at her with a smirk, “Going to take my idea with the hounds and use it on me, then? I suppose I have to admit that it has that fanciful twist of irony and all, but it also seems rather unimaginative; couldn’t you come up with something on your own?”  

 

Another voice pierced the dark as another face presented itself on the other side of the gate, “Actually, she is not alone in deciding your fate tonight.”  

 

The gate slowly lifted and Ramsay could see in the growing light that there were a number of people standing on the other side of the gate. The man who had spoken was tall and large, with a thick mane of red hair and a bushy beard. He spoke in an accent that marked him as a Wildling.  

 

Ramsay frowned at the newcomer, “I remember seeing you at the parlay before the battle, but do I know you, or is Sansa recruiting Wildlings to come up with clever things to say in absence of her wit? Though it can only be a measure of her intelligence that she would seek Wildlings for such a task, of course…”  

 

The big man stepped forward casually and backhanded Ramsay. His head snapped to the side and he tasted blood once more. He smiled and started to say something, but the man immediately struck him again, forcing his head back in the other direction under the force of the blow. This happened twice more before Ramsay stopped trying to speak, only glaring up at the Wildling hatefully, his mouth closed in a tight line.  

 

The Wildling nodded, “Now we have met; I am Tormund, and I am here tonight to hurt you more than anyone has ever hurt you.”  

 

Tormund watched him a moment, as if daring him to try to say something sarcastic in reply. Ramsay swallowed his blood, working his jaw and wondering if his nose was broken. He finally said the only thing he could think of at the moment that wouldn’t evoke another skull-shaking blow to the face, “Hello, Tormund.”  

 

Tormund paced in front of Ramsay as he described the last few hours of the day, “Lady Sansa Stark has informed us all of the things you have done, both to her and others, to give us all a ballast of understanding in why she wanted to see you ripped apart alive by your own hounds.”  

 

Ramsay smiled, “Oh, I’m sure she…” His head flew to the side as Tormund struck him again and his vision swum, pinpricks of light dancing in front of his eyes.  

 

Tormund gave him a moment to recover before continuing, not bothering to elaborate on why Ramsay had been hit again, “But we free people laughed that she felt the need to explain. You see, your fate concerning your own hounds was manifest the moment you threatened us with the same. For us there could be no other way.”  

 

Tormund put a hand on each of Ramsay’s arms, supporting his weight on the chair Ramsay was tied to as he leaned his grizzled visage in close, “No, our only objection was that she was being far too merciful to such an underserving cunt as you. I saw how you think in that battle, killing your own men just to trap us like that, to kill us slow.”  

 

Ramsay didn’t say anything; he knew now that any attempt to gain leverage in conversation would be met with violence, however he couldn’t stop the cruel smile that spread over his face. So the Wildling liked his little game back on the battlefield did he? He liked the idea of the fear Tormund must have felt when he was smashed into that herd of dying men.  

 

Tormund only watched his face a moment and then he responded with his own cruel smile, and despite his best effort Ramsay found his own smile faltering in the face of that open malice, “You will die tonight, ripped to pieces by your own dogs, because that has been your destiny for some time. But…”  

 

Tormund stepped back, drawing a knife from a scabbard on his hip, “…you like to torture people, so we have some special treatment for you. By the time we finish, you will be wishing for death.”  

 

Ramsay felt it then; the first icy tendrils of the fear that he enjoyed seeing so much in others. Of course, he did not enjoy feeling this fear himself. He had spent most of his life living in fear, fear of rejection, fear of his father’s drunken moods, or that he would lose his very name to a male heir.  

 

His jaw worked as he tried to think of something to say, and to his own ears his reply sounded far too familiar to what his victims often said in the first hour of torture, “I am no stranger to pain, brute.”  

 

It was true; Ramsay had a threshold for pain that only an abusive parent can bestow, but he had played with the pain of others enough to know that everyone had limits, even him. He had come to the conclusion that he was going to die today, so there was no hope of surviving this; his only win now would be to die unbroken.  

 

That would be a trick if this Wildling knew anything of the art of suffering, so Ramsay immediately grasped for his only real option; to enrage the barbarian enough to get him to kill Ramsey, “You had best kill me before I get free of this chair; I doubt even this number of you untrained savages would stand a chance against a real soldier.”  

 

Tormund smiled at him and stepped forward menacingly with the knife. He attempted not to, but Ramsay flinched anyways, Tormund smiling at him a moment before reaching down to cut Ramsay’s bonds.  

 

The Wildling stepped away again and handed his knife to another of his kin before turning to Ramsay, who stood rubbing his wrists and looking at them all warily, “Well come then, soldier. If you could dispatch all of us I am certain you will have no trouble with just me.”  

 

Tormund waved at the others and they stepped away from the gate, “You like to play games, don’t you? There’s the exit.”  

 

Ramsay looked at Tormund and the others, most of whom smiled at him in a cruel way that reminded him of the way Myranda looked when he took her on his hunts with him, just before the hounds caught their prey.  

 

Myranda had been very much like him, and he hadn’t realized how much he missed her until he had found her broken body in the courtyard the day that Sansa Stark had escaped Winterfell. But now these wildlings wore that look of expectant glee, the sort of joy that can only be found in the thrill of a game in which the prey don’t actually have any real hope of escape, when all you’re really waiting for are those final moments when they finally realize that.

But Ramsay knew it now. He didn’t know how Tormund planned to play the game, but he knew that open door wasn’t a way out. Despite this, he stepped towards the opening to see what would happen. Tormund stuck a hand out and shoved him, sending him careening backwards over the chair to land hard on the stone.  

 

Ramsay took a few moments to get his breath back, taking pained, deep winded gasps of air in. He stood shakily to see that Tormund had taken the chair and placed it outside of the kennel’s main compartment.  

 

Ramsay looked around, but there was nothing else he could use as a weapon except perhaps the hounds themselves. Tormund followed his lingering gaze to the cages and scoffed, “Hungry as they are now after seven days without food, so you said yourself, they are as like to rip open your throat as the first meal they see than follow any command you offer.”  

 

Ramsay gulped, running the thought over in his mind; Tormund was right. They were fiercely loyal beasts, but conveying commands to them alone and at such close proximity in his weakened and bloodied state might hasten the end that Sansa promised, and he knew from lengthy experience that being ripped apart by blood-thirsty dogs was a painful and slow way to die. 

 No, he knew that the open gate was a game he could not win, so he focused instead on the one he might still succeed at; getting Tormund to kill him quickly. With a cry Ramsay threw himself at the warrior, doing everything he could think of to cause anger; biting, pulling hair, eye-gouging, and attacks to the crotch.  

 

To his surprise Tormund countered every one of these underhanded tactics. When he tried to bite he got a fist to the teeth. When he reached to pull the bearded man’s long hair his arm was painfully twisted until he let go. When he tried to gouge Tormund’s eyes, the warrior closed them and head-butted him in the face.  Tormund moved aside when he tried to hit him in the genitals, moving in a smooth arc before returning his own punch solidly into Ramsay’s groin. 

 

With a gasp Ramsay crumbled to the floor, unable to remain standing against the excruciating pain of the powerful punch to such a tender area. Tormund was no knight to be surprised by dirty fighting, Ramsay realized belatedly. The big man mocked him as he rolled over in agony, “No wonder you did not wish to face John Snow in real combat; you fight like an angry toddler.”  

 

There was a burst of laughter behind him and Ramsay looked up to see Sansa Stark was smiling at him, at the way he scrabbled about on the ground. He put all of his will into standing, anger surging through him that she was getting satisfaction from this.  

 

This was certainly not the plan. It made him even more angry when he looked into Tormund’s eyes; he was trying to make the Wildling angry, but he had only succeeded in getting upset himself… he had let Tormund under his skin.  

 

Ramsay cleared his countenance; clearly this brute was cleverer than he had initially given him credit. With a face devoid of expression Ramsay straitened, dusting himself off, “So are we to continue rolling around in the dirt bare-handed like Wildling pigs or is someone going to arm us and make a real fight out of this?”  

 

Ramsay cast about, giving everyone there a challenging look, hoping that someone would take enough offense at his audacity to comply. Instead they laughed at him again, and Tormund bellowed out a raucous guffaw, “You are the only one rolling about in the dirt little pig, and no one here is going to arm you so that you can take your own life like the spineless coward you are. Besides, you have already been told how you are going to die today, so we can’t have me killing your weakling ass, right?”  

 

Ramsay’s eyes flitted across those still laughing at him as his heart sank; that was his last real option for a quick death. Tormund was obviously not going to allow Ramsay to manipulate him, and as brainless as the Wildlings were, they had enough sense not to fall for such an obvious ploy. With a sudden burst of speed he fled towards the furthest cage away from Tormund, reaching out for the latch that would let the hound inside loose. He might die a horrible death this way but there was a chance he could take Tormund or maybe some of the others with him, perhaps die by the blade in the ensuing fight.  

 

At the very least, he wouldn’t be playing their game on their terms anymore, and that was what he needed the most. One dog would likely not be a sufficient threat to a warrior like Tormund, but one could distract enough for him to get to the other cages…  

 

Ramsay cried out as a sudden pain erupted in his leg. He crashed to the ground before he could reach the cage, glancing back to see an arrow protruding from his thigh. There was more laughter as Tormund pushed him down, roughly ripping the arrow free from him with a wrench that made him cry out, “Did that seem familiar?”  

 

Pain teared up his eyes, causing his vision to swim as he looked back to see a wildling lower their bow. They had been waiting for him to run, had been waiting for him to think running would do him any good, just as he had done with Rickon Stark.  

 

Ramsay reached up weakly, desperately trying for the arrow shaft in Tormund’s hand, but the big warrior hit him squarely in the face and his world went dark.  

 

When light came to Ramsay’s world again, the first thing to greet him was an ache in his head, followed by a dull throbbing in his thigh. He shifted, moaning his discomfort, and his eyes opened wide at the realization that he was completely immobile.  

 

He could turn his head and sit up from the table he was on only slightly, but his arms and legs were bound tightly in a spread-eagle fashion. Trying to make sense of the position he was in he peered up at his arms and then down at his legs. His arrow wound had been expertly bandaged, and he was not on a large table as he had at first thought but on one of the Bolton family crosses, but instead of hanging upside down upon it vertically as was the tradition, the cross had been laid upon a smaller table so that he now rested on it on his stomach.  

 

He continued to look about, recognizing the room he was in. This was the room where he played with prisoners who needed interrogation, or who simply had made the mistake of falling into his bad graces. He had neutered Theon Greyjoy in this room.  

 

Several racks stood nearby, an assortment of tools on them designed to make grown men scream like children and beg for death. He swallowed hard, licking his lips as a tremor of quaking fear rolled through him. They were going to use his own tools on him.  

 

He jumped at the sound of a voice just behind him, “We thought this would be the best spot to put you in your place, Ramsay Snow.”  

 

Ramsay bit his lip, but couldn’t keep his frustration in but for a moment, “Bolton! I am Ramsay Bolton!”  

 

A powerful hand ran itself over his scalp and suddenly grabbed a fistful of his short hair, pulling his head up so that he was looking back at Tormund’s bearded face,  “No, you don’t even get that anymore. In fact, I wouldn’t even deign to call you a Snow; you aren’t even worthy of a bastard’s title. I think I’m going to give you a new title. You’re new title is ‘Bitch’.”   

 

Ramsay laughed coldly, “Say whatever you want, wild man; your words are as empty as your head.” He felt the distinct edge of a cold blade and froze, his eyes widening as his breathing quickened. There was a ripping sound as Tormund dragged a knife down his trousers, cleaving them neatly. With a single yank he left Ramsay bare-bottomed upon the cross.  

 

Ramsay’s ass-cheeks tightened apprehensively at what Tormund might do next. Would he cut his shirt from his back and begin the awful process of flaying him alive? They had promised that he would be eaten by dogs, so that seemed unlikely.  

 

The thought that Tormund might be about to cut off his balls came to mind. After all, he had just given him the title ‘Bitch’, and might want to put him closer to that description. Tormund laughed at how he tensed, “Look at how quiet you’ve become now. I wonder how many more things you will say before you beg me to call you ‘Bitch’.  

 

There was the sound of Tormund’s knife being sheathed, and Ramsay let out a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding. The rustle of cloth caused him to look behind himself, however, and he gasped openly at what he saw there.  

 

Tormund had unsheathed his cock, and was giving Ramsay a wicked smile as he jerked himself hard, “I’m not going to use these instruments on you sissy boy; I came packing the only tool I need to put you in your place.”  

 

Ramsay bucked against the restraints, feeling the futility of the action even as he did so, “No!” he croaked, “You animal; you fucking rutting pig!”  

 

Tormund only laughed at the crack in his voice, the first sign of true horror that Ramsay had given in to since all of this had started, “That’s right; you’re going to get fucked in the ass by a rutting pig; how does that feel, Bitch?”  

 

The Wildling leaned over him and Ramsay could feel his hot breath on his neck, as well as the hot weight of Tormund’s dick pressing against his ass, “I wonder; will you squeal like a piglet, or moan like a true bitch. I know that before we are done you will beg me to stop.”  

 

Ramsay threw himself around on the cross wildly, “I’ll bite my own tongue off before I do such a thing!”  

 

Tormund laughed again and grabbed Ramsay’s hips roughly, placing himself against the other man and listening a moment to Ramsay’s panicked breathing, “You are a torturer by trade I hear; you should know that isn’t a real option. Even if it was, I think you are too cowardly to face the pain of it, or give up your ability to run your little mouth, for that matter.”  

 

Ramsay might have had an answer to that statement, but Tormund suddenly shoved himself forcefully inside, and Ramsey let out a pained, surprised gasp instead. Any chance that this has been a cleverly conceived mind-fuck went out of the window as it became painfully clear that it was in fact a very real fuck.  

 

Tormund kept ramming himself against the smaller man to get his massive girth all the way inside, Ramsay shrieking out in dismay with each push. Once he was in to the hilt Tormund smiled at Ramsay’s squirming, “I’m glad you don’t like it too much, Bitch; it’s more fun when you wriggle like a fish on a hook.”  

 

Ramsay felt a lump in his throat as tears stung at his eyes, and he stuttered as he spoke, barely able to get the words out around the feeling of the foreign intrusion, “You’re sick; a sick disgusting pig…”  

 

Tormund smiled again, “Now isn’t that the kettle calling the pot black? Don’t forget that we haven’t really started yet… this is going to be a very long night for you, Bitch.”  

 

Ramsay gasped again as Tormund pulled out and then rammed home again and again, Ramsay crying out uncontrollably as he pounded into him savagely, “N-no… stop!” Only laughter greeted his first plea and Ramsay realized he was playing into Tormund’s game as much now as he was at the beginning.  

 

Whatever he might tell himself and despite knowing where it was all going, Ramsay continued to do exactly what Tormund wanted, even now. He screamed in a fit of rage, kicking his feet against the restraints there and working his elbows around, but all he succeeded in doing was causing painful rope burns on his wrists and ankles, yet more discomfort to add to what Tormund did to his forbidden entrance.  

 

A thick hand grabbed his hair and his head was pulled back once more, “How does it feel getting raped, then? I hear this is something you liked to do, maybe even did to Sansa Stark, eh? I think I’ll let her know how I deflowered you next we meet.”  

 

Ramsay frothed at the mouth his anger was so great, his humiliation clouding out all thought and making it impossible for him to maintain any semblance of his composure, “I’ll repay you a thousand times a thousand times for this! You will suffer as no man ever has!”  

 

Tormund answered by ramming into him even more deeply and roughly, causing Ramsay to cry out in renewed pain and discomfort, “You shouldn’t make promises you know you can’t keep. Since you’re stuck on this thousand times thing maybe I can do one better…”  

 

Tormund leaned in and whispered in Ramsay’s ear, seeming to relish the un-comfortability the intimate gesture created in Ramsay, “Once I’m done fucking your asshole, Bitch, I’m going to send in my men one at a time to do the same to you. Don’t worry; I’ll tell them to change it up on occasion so that you don’t get too bored with it all.”  

 

Ramsay paled and Tormund laughed again after a few moments had passed, “Finally speechless, Bitch? You know, we free folk believe that we all create our own story by what we do in our lives. You wrote this chapter in your story, Bitch, you’ve been writing it all along.”  

 

Tormund finally shuddered to a halt, yelling, “Take it, Bitch!” He rested against Ramsay a moment, the smaller man feeling tears run unwanted from his eyes, for the first time in a lifetime exposed for the small, weak person he really was inside.  

 

He was going to get his army of Wildlings, still hundreds if not thousands strong to rape him, perhaps standing in a line leading out into the courtyard, waiting to take their turns at despoiling his anus.  

 

Then Tormund began pushing into him again and he moaned out in agony and horror. Tormund was grinning at him as he looked back fearfully, “Oh I’ve got another round or two in me, Bitch. One thing you’re going to realize about us free folk; we have stamina. I told you, Bitch; you’re going to beg to die before you get anywhere near the option.”


	2. Chapter 2

(So My hubby loves me so! He wanted to to cheer me up, so he wrote another chapter for me. I'm so loved! =D)

 

 Ramsey looked about himself, groggily trying to rise but unable. After a few moments, as the dull pains crept back into his perception and his mind began to remember what his most recent life had been like he groaned in anguish at those memories.

 Tormund had been raping him. Specifically, Tormund had been raping him in the ass. He remembered now with a shudder of terror that before his second and third bouts of such abuse, which had rendered him unconscious, that the big man had promised to have his men do the same.

 Ramsey looked about himself with scared eyes, dreading the visage of any one of those bestial Wildling men that had come to oust him from his most recent home of Winterfell. But he saw none present at the moment. The only sound he could hear was the harsh rasp of his own frightened breath.

 Ramsey tried to calm himself, to reign it in, but to his dismay he discovered that Tormund had unsettled him rather completely, and he could no sooner fix his composure than undo all the horrible things that the Wildling had done to him.

 The rough treatment he had endured lingered, and Ramsey groaned again to the raw feeling of it. Then he heard the sound of footsteps, and he looked up, hoping against hope that it was just a servant come to clean him up from Tormund’s… ministrations.

 To his disdain he instead saw Sansa Stark, and to his even greater discouragement, she was smiling down at him. He thought then what he must look like now as he glanced back, especially now that Tormund had removed his lower garments.

“Hello, Ramsey. I see you have spent the last few hours remaining of use to our friend Tormund.”

Ramsey winced at this belittling statement, even more so as Tormund added, “Oh yes, Lady Stark; he sated me no less than three times. I enjoyed it so much I had to wonder if I had been his first…”

 Ramsey lowered his head. He couldn’t meet Sansa’s gaze, not like this. When he glanced back up at her though there was a look in her eyes that held him transfixed, like the eyes of a viper looking at prey, there was desire, hunger there, “If only I had a cock, I would have liked to have been his first…”

 Tormund laughed, “Well, you could still be the first woman to have his ass; from what I’ve heard of his bout with you lot it would be a good turn for him. Peg him with a wooden stick; it’s not like it’s for his comfort, anyways.” His face brightened, “You know, I’ve seen that Davos fellow carving on things here and there; maybe he could whittle you a proper cock!”

 Ramsey’s face turned to a deep frown as he glared at the floor, as if trying to melt the stone with the heat of his impotent anger. Sansa rather liked that their talk caused him such stress, and found herself thrilled that it was suddenly so easy to get a rise out of cold, calculating Ramsey Bolton, “Yes, I think I shall enjoy fucking you, Ramsey.”

 Tormund held up a hand, “No, ma’am, his name is Bitch now.”

 Ramsey gritted his teeth and Sansa raised an eyebrow, a small playful smile tugging at her mouth, “Bitch, eh? I think I see why you chose it; fitting.”

 Ramsey fought the urge to argue with them, to tell them anything of how much he hated them. They only wanted that; to see him squirm on his hook, so he didn’t instead remaining in stoic silence, hoping that she would bore with him and let it end.

 Sansa’s smile widened, “My, I don’t think I have ever heard him this quiet before. Have you run out of clever things to say since Tormund took your virginity, my dear husband?”

 Ramsey bit his tongue, holding his silence with every ounce of his will. To his dismay Tormund laughed and added, “The others are arriving now so no worries; we will have his mouth working as hard as his ass.”

 Ramsey gasped, “You had best not try; the first man to dare put his member under the power of my teeth shall not remain a man long.”

 Tormund laughed, grabbing his mouth and forcing him to look up into the bearded man’s menacing smile, “We can remove your teeth then! In fact, I think that since that is some of the worst pain you can give a man without killing him, I would be honored to do it to you.”

 Tormund turned to one of the approaching soldiers, “I’ll be needing a pair of pliers…”

 Sansa held up a hand, and Ramsey felt his heart skip a beat, “No, wait. His face just wouldn’t look the same if you removed his teeth. He never hit me in the face; always said I had to look presentable. I’ll do the same for him, if only because I want him to look ‘presentable’ when I rape him with my wooden cock.”

 She smiled at the shocked expression on Ramsey’s face, turning quickly and addressing Tormund as she hurried away, “Have the men line up behind him, and please tell them to take their time…”

 Tormund smiled, “We’ve got all night…” he turned to the rest of the brutish-looking men, throwing a thumb back towards Ramsey, “Bitch here is really begging for it, threatening to bite cocks and all, so I want you to really give it to him well, so that he knows who’s on top.”

 There was a cheer that made Ramsey’s heart race, and the warriors began to line themselves up behind him. He craned his head back so that he could see, witnessing as they all glared at him in their own ways; some with open hatred at what he had done at the battlefield so recently, ready to make him die slowly, and others grinning at him lasciviously, clearly planning to enjoy using him to fulfill their own dark needs.

 Ramsey was hyperventilating as the first one approached, his body covered in a sheen of nervous sweat, and when that first man pushed himself unceremoniously inside Ramsey cried out, bristling as the men behind him laughed at his displeasure. His eyes widened though as he actually heard the multitude of voices that joined into that laugh.

 He craned again, trying to make out exactly how many men had come to do this thing to him, and he let out a silent cry of despair even as his first assailant worked at him; the line of men was three persons thick and filled the room, running out into the hall to an unknown length. Men walked up and down the enormous throng of his soon-to-be fuckers just to keep them all organized.

 Ramsey felt faint, as he had when Tormund had on the third go of him he had recently taken, but to his despair he was unable to fall unconscious, forced to endure what was happening to him in the waking state.

 After five men had their way with him Ramsey’s conviction began to waver, and he knew as a man who had taken the psychology of people of their limits to heart that he could not endure much more before he lost himself in the sea of overwhelming shame, discomfort, and most dire of humiliations as men he had not even known called out ‘take it, Bitch!’ as they unloaded their frustrations on his unwilling form.

 After twelve men Ramsey began to plea, asking them to stop, having lost all vestige of the pride that had held him for so long, which had told him to silently endure his pain until his death, so as to die with at least that intact. But that was not the case; he was a broken man now, and any humiliation he suffered from begging for death no longer seemed to measure up to what he already suffered from the seemingly infinite line of men waiting to despoil him.

 Shortly after this it began beyond painfully clear that Ramsey would receive no mercy from these Wildlings, as they only replied to his pleas with laughter and further cruelty, as Tormund smiled knowingly at him, a man who continued to predictably win against Ramsey.

 At first, Ramsey fell into a deep quiet, merely laying there as they took from him again and again, but after a time his last walls fell and he began to sob quietly, faint watery pinpoints on his eyes betraying budding tears.

 Tormund smiled viciously, “He’s started to cry lads; you must be doing it well! Give it to the Bitch well, and see that he wails before you’re done!”

 It was a thing after that; none of the men would come until Ramsey wailed loudly for them in his utmost state of humiliation. That of course only fed the rising angst he felt, adding to the litany of feelings that he had choked down until this point.

 He had done well in hiding how this treatment made him feel, but Ramsey had long since exceeded his limits, and he had to finally succumb to the human condition and offer what they were looking for; a pitiable, keening cry that carried with it all of the horrible fear and repressed anger that had been bottled up inside of him.

 He would occasionally look back to see how many were left yet to fuck him, feeling raw from all of the activity afforded him, but every time he did he regretted it; the line continued to spread out to round the corner of the hall, a vast number beyond counting.

 This of course added further incite to his cries, which brought more mirth to the men, which gave him more reason to cry. He was sobbing openly by the time Sansa returned, and when he saw her there, suddenly looking at his open weeping, he choked, wiping at his tears and wishing he could die on command.

 She looked astonished, “Tormund, I knew he wouldn’t take this well, but I never imagined he would break so completely before I returned…”

 Tormund shrugged, “It is a habit of the tormentor to instill a sense of strength in their prey, but such manipulative twats as him rarely actually possess an ounce of true grit.”

 Ramsey tried to his face from Sansa, but since he was restrained this only really meant looking away. She walked over and took hold of his chin, forcing him to look at her, holding his face pinched between her fingers so that he could not look away, “Davos was a little surprised when I asked him to whittle a wooden dick, but when I told him it was to fuck you…”

 Ramsey flinched, but Sansa continued to hold his face tightly, “…but when I told him it was to fuck you he complied quickly. You see, there isn’t anyone who knows you that wouldn’t want to see you fucked over.”

 He could see it now; a long, massive elegantly carved and well-polished wooden carving in a phallic shape. She held it in her hand casually, and he wept to think what she meant for him next. Sansa saw him glance at it and her smile broadened, “Oh don’t get too eager; you’ll have your turn with me very soon now. I don’t know about you, but I’m sure going to enjoy this…”

  


	3. Chapter 3

(I must be doing something right since Jason has graced me with another lovely chapter! Poor Ramsay, he gets no breaks around here! LOL! XD)

Chapter 3

Sansa waited patiently for some time as one man after another had his way with Ramsay. He did his best not to look at her, but occasionally he found himself glancing her way before he quickly returned his gaze to the floor.

 That momentary look was all it took for him to see her satisfied, smug look. Every time he saw it he shuddered with revulsion at the sheer knowledge that she was enjoying something that caused him so much displeasure.

 Of course, there were few places to look and few things to do to try to distract himself from what was happening to him, and the fact that he could no more hide from her smile than he could from showing her his tears only compounded his misery.

 This evening, this terrible evening of all the days in his life he had been brought to the lowest point in his entire existence. When his father had sent that bent, awful-smelling little man Reek to tend to him and his mother when he was a child, the same man he had renamed Theon in honor of, he had been told over and over of the greatness he exemplified and how much greater he would one day be.

 This had only been added to when his mother had finally bothered to tell him that he was an heir to the Bolton legacy, even if a bastard one. Destined for greatness. Meant to rise above his meager standing from his humble beginnings and become a god among men.

 Not this. Not like this. Now he was lower than he had ever been in his own history, and when he did catch Sansa’s eyes, he caught a promise there to push him lower, somehow even further down, until he was so pathetic, so insignificant, that even the sobbing state he was in now would seem regal in comparison…

 He would look back from time to time, as if to see whether the line of Wildlings was coming to an end, but he might as well not have each time, for every time he looked back, he saw the same long line disappearing around the far corner.

 Of course this never helped his temperament, and to his great shame he quite often found himself squalling over the fact, too far gone to care anymore who saw how weak he now was, how easily this all now roused whatever mixture of horror, despair or rage he might be provoked into.

 A soft voice cut the air and surprised everyone, “That’s enough for now; I apologize to those who wanted a go, but I’m becoming impatient for my own turn with him.”

 All eyes fixed on Sansa, Ramsay unable to tear his wide blue eyes from her resolute look as she dismissed the others, “I want him all to myself for a while, please. I promise that I will leave enough of him for any others still looking forward to see this through.”

 There was a soft murmur of laughter from the assembled men, and Ramsay was certain that they had seen the item in her hand as he had, leaving no doubt as to what she intended to do once they were alone.

 As most had filed out, Sansa turned to a serving woman who had entered the dungeon with her, “I’d have him cleaned up first; they’ve made a mess of him.”

 The next few minutes saw Ramsay enduring an unabashed cleaning of his privates as the serving woman fetched water and soap and washed him liberally. Under other circumstances he would definitely have had something to say about Sansa’s interest in him, or the fact that she wanted him clean, but in this circumstance he found himself mute, unable to say anything at all as fear twisted knots in his guts and put a sheen of sweat on his brow as she moved in close to him with her wooden object, playfully twirling it from one hand to the other.

 This was a strong indication that he was changing, bending to her efforts he knew. From his own experiences he understood that fear typically robbed sarcasm from those who used it to tread on others or make themselves look mentally superior, and he was certainly no exception.

 His bottom lip was succumbing to a tremor that he couldn’t stop, and regardless of how hard he attempted to resume his standard blank, cold face of indifference, his emotions had become far too unbound and the brutality he had so far endured left him far too raw to reign himself in.

 Sansa smiled, “There. That is what I’ve wanted most since that first night you raped me. I might have told myself I simply wanted escape or maybe even that I wanted you dead, but neither of those things would have compared to seeing you… like this.”

 Ramsay tried to look away but she gently took his chin in her hand, firmly turning his eyes back to hers, “Were you afraid when I told you that you would die tonight, back at the parlay before the battle?”

 Ramsay didn’t answer, but his trembling body seemed to be all the answer she needed, “You were. Because whatever you might have told yourself over the years, the only reason you even felt the need to hunt, to torture, to rape and murder, is because you know deep down you are a weak little man seeking validation of his own greatness.”

 Tears filled his eyes and her smile widened, “And you know that we Starks honor our words or die trying. When you saw my brother, you saw a man stronger than you, and you felt the need to tell him how many more men you had, using it as a lame excuse to avoid his challenge, because you knew in your heart that you were too weak to rise to that challenge.”

 She let go of his face and started to walk slowly around the table with the cross on it, watching as Ramsay fidgeted nervously against his restraints, how he sweated more as she approached behind him. “But what you are most afraid of, even more than savage Wildling men performing unspeakable acts upon your person…”

 Ramsay’s eyes widened and his mouth opened wide in a gasp as he suddenly felt something hard pressing into his forbidden entrance.

 “…you’re afraid that a woman, especially one of the women you had raped and demeaned, might one day find a way to repay you the ‘honor’ you so often spoke of.”

 He cried out as she gave a shove, thrusting the foreign object inside of him.

 “All those stories you told me after you had finished forcing yourself on me, bragging of the ‘trophies’ you collected, hunting people for sport. You told me you would fuck those women and name your hounds after them, to ‘honor’ them…”

 Sansa began to work the item in her hand vigorously now, and Ramsay jumped about, howling against the burning discomfort that it caused and the fact that he was unable to do anything to stop or mitigate his pain in any way.

 “I like that Tormund has named you ‘Bitch’, but I think I will go a step further… I think once we are done with you today, I will get myself a loyal bitch, and I will name her ‘Ramsay’.”

 Ramsay couldn’t take any more; he had been taking his punishment as stoically as he possibly could thus far, but he had reached his limit as she prodded him both physically and with her words. He burst into reckless tears, wailing out a song of despair as he twisted to her grip.

 As Ramsay gave into the depths of his own sorrows Sansa grew quiet, ramming him hard to make sure that he felt and remembered every moment for what remained of his life. Then when he finally went limp against her, trembling and crying upon the cross, she threw the wooden cock to the floor.

 She went to the wash basin her servant had left behind, cleaning her hands and giving him time to try to pull his hitching sobs into a more serene pattern of breathing. Once he had quieted down she calmly walked to the front of him again, bending at the knees so that she could push her face close to his.

 Ramsay shook, and he looked at her fearfully, no doubt wondering if she would now call those men back in to continue their work upon him, or perhaps if it was now time to die now that his humiliation was total.

 “What was it you said to us out on that field? I believe you said ‘I wonder which they will eat first…”

 She ran a hand over his face and he flinched, “Your eyes?”

 She walked back behind him laying a hand on his tensed calf, “…Your feet?”

 He grimaced as she suddenly gripped him in a clenched fist, “Your balls?”

 She walked back in front of him, “I’m going to let you decide which part of you I feed to your dogs. You have an hour to think it over, and if you can’t come up with an answer by then, I think I’ll probably default to your balls. Always been an opinion of mine that rapists are better off without them, after all.”

 It took a few moments for the implications of this request to register in his tortured mind. Ramsay looked up at her, his voice weak with barely dared hope, “You said you would feed me to the hounds… that I would die tonight…”

 Sansa put one finger under his chin, smiling as he reactively flinched, “But Ramsay; you have died tonight. All I see here now is a ‘Bitch’.”

 She turned after a moment, leaving him there to decide what part of himself he would feed to his own animals, but that misery paled in comparison to the realization that this was only the first night of many, likely a fact she had waited to share with him so that the largeness of it would be magnified by his present condition.

 His composure melted away once more, and he wailed his grief, perhaps for the first time truly understanding the pain he had once so enjoyed inflicting.


	4. Half a Man

(So this is the conclusion to Jason's gift fic for me, to warn, it's a bitter and brutal end... no death, but definitely not a happy one for Ramsay to be warned!)

Ramsay spent his hour in a perpetual state of sweat and regret. He didn’t have to mull over what Sansa had told him last for long before the sheer anticipation of the choice he would have to make started to feel as if it was literally killing him.

His chest hurt from the strain all of this put on his heart. His stomach was sick as it twisted this way and that in gut-wrenching spasms of worry. His throat was raw from screaming out as Sansa had taken him so savagely.

Raw and dry, also a result of so much yelling, his heart sinking to think how many pleas for mercy or humiliating displays had filled those cries with words best forgotten but which could never be forgotten. His muscles shook from the constant exertion and strain inflicted on them.

Sure, he hadn’t gotten up from the cross once, but what had been done to him had caused him to spasm and twist and clench and become taut so many times that he was exhausted from it. If nothing else, his hour of time to decide which important body part he could do without gave him some much-needed rest.

When he heard the footfalls of someone approaching all he could think was ‘It hasn’t been an hour already has it?’ He found himself despairing at the hopelessness of that thought and all it conveyed to him. But as the footsteps drew very close he saw with some false modicum of relief that it was not yet Sansa Stark.

The servant girl had returned, along with some wildling men, the former beginning the process of cleaning him again as the latter took positions around the room as if to become guards. Why would he need guards tied up like this? The way the servant paid such special attention to his genitals made him frown deeply… this process had the feeling of preparation for surgery…

When Sansa’s voice did pipe up again he had been lost in thought on his miserable circumstances and all the unfortunate luck that had brought him to this, so that he jumped at the sound of her, “So, Ramsay… have you decided?”

He looked up fearfully to see her standing there, a well-sharpened knife in her hand. She twirled the blade almost playfully, as if she might be about to whittle on something innocuous as opposed to removing body parts with it…

He opened his mouth and then shut it again. Could he really choose? His eyes, and be forever blinded? His feet, and be forever maim? Or his balls, and have his humiliation by those that had bested him be completed in every way…

Seeing that he was unable to decide, Sansa simply nodded, “His balls, then. Hold him still, I’ve gelded a few animals in my time; I’m sure I’ll have no trouble doing this personally.”

“Wait… no!” Ramsay’s eyes were wide as he bucked against his restraints, soon feeling the strong vice-like hands of several men take hold of his limbs so as to keep him from rocking the cross even slightly, “No, please! Please don’t do this!”

He heard Sansa behind him now, and his heart hammered in his chest, feeling almost light-headed with fear, “I made a promise, Bitch. I need to feed what’s left of Ramsay to his hounds before we are done here tonight.”

He felt the cold hard sensation of a blade touching his thigh and froze, his face locked in an expression of utter horror, and then she started cutting him. He screamed, but the big Wildling men didn’t let him move so much as a fraction of an inch.

The process was actually fairly quick; it was the pain that would follow that he knew from experience would be the cruelest part. He almost didn’t feel it under the thrall of so much adrenaline… almost. That sensation, where she had cut him to remove the items that made him a man; that would likely haunt him forever.

The servant girl moved in next to bandage his new wounds, did so in a quick and skilled manner that left him with no doubts as to who had dressed the wound on his leg. Sansa walked around and he could see that she had placed his manhood on a plate; he looked away, his eyes tearing up as he did his best not to see it.

“Once she has you ready, we’ll go to the kennel once more, and you’ll be coming with; I wouldn’t want you to miss this next part. Ramsay looked at her back as she walked away with a shocked expression on his face. True to her word, as soon as his bandages were tightly secured, the large Wildlings stepped forward, taking hold of the cross and lifting it with Ramsay still on it, one man to each corner.

They carried him out to the courtyard then, to the kennel gate where he had been taunted so recently by Tormund, who stood there waiting for him. In fact, everyone was waiting there for him. John Snow and all the others he had seen at the parlay were there, along with many faces he did not know but who stared at him with the same expectant look.

The look of men and women who came to see him suffer. There was no ceremony to the affair, no pomp or words said; once she saw the Wildlings carrying his cross had turned so that he could view the hounds through the gate, Sansa tossed his parts inside as one would toss away a bit of refuse.

Ramsay flinched at the ravenous display as the blood-thirsty beasts tore into the flesh offered. A cheer went up from many of those present, a raucous cry of delight and satisfaction. Sansa approached him once they had eaten every scrap of what she took from him, “I’ll let you watch my men put these poor creatures out of their misery and then you will be returned to heal in your new room.”

Ramsay felt tears streaming down his face and realized belatedly that he was crying again and quite publicly for that matter. He didn’t care anymore, he realized, he wasn’t the same now. He could never be again. With a voice warbling from strain, he begged, “Please don’t kill my dogs…”

Sansa shook her head, “You’ve bred them into killers, each of them trained to eat human flesh. We can’t suffer these creatures any more than we could suffer you; the only difference is that they will have quick, merciful deaths.”

 

Ramsay woke with a start, realizing quickly that he was still bound. He blinked, orienting himself to his surroundings; something was different. Quite a few somethings, in fact. For one, he was now on his back, and his feet seemed to be free of constraint, though his wrists were still tied.

The last thing he had remembered was passing out to the display of watching his prized animals put down one at a time, the stress and pain on his mind and body finally overcoming the disasters that kept him awake, so that he allowed himself to fall into the sweet embrace of nothingness.

Now he could see as he looked up that he was bound by wrapped silk to the back posts of a bed, which he now rested on. This was not the best way to keep a prisoner restrained, but as he looked around to see the big men guarding him, he realized that the restraints weren’t what was really going to keep him in place.

As he moved to peer around, a servant girl took note of him and quickly departed. Several minutes later, Sansa stood in the door way to what he now knew to be one of the castle’s bedrooms, “You had been asleep for some time, and my Maester had joked that perhaps you would be the first man in recorded history to die of angry butt-sex.”

Ramsay’s face flushed, and he looked down to see that Sansa had not left him a shred of clothing. The only thing he wore were bandages now. He looked away, not wanting to share with her the look on his face as he remembered in a rush clearly everything that had recently been done to him.

He felt a slender hand caressing him and he shuddered, remembering what had followed the last time she had caressed him in such a fashion. “I just wanted to drop by now that you are awake, to let you know that in a few days’ time, when you are properly healed from your castration, I will be returning to play with you some more.”

He couldn’t help but look up at the cold, merciless light in her eyes, which made him shake to his core, “In fact, I enjoy fucking you so much, I’ll probably be visiting you nightly…”

She smiled as he began to sob, “…don’t go looking so sad, husband; you don’t want to deny your wife her marriage due, do you? You said something like that to me often enough, didn’t you?”

She patted him and ran a hand through his hair as his weeping got louder, getting up to leave after one last cold smile.

Then he was alone with what she had just given him; more reason to regret still being alive.

The reasons kept coming two days hence, as she visited him nightly to make good on her promise, fucking him with her wooden cock, which had been artfully worked onto a harness so that she could give him the full experience of being raped personally by her.

Many were the nights in the early days when he had begged for death as a release, as so many of his own victims had, but of course she never granted it, instead only granting him another round of invasion and shame. In time he turned into a man broken, not at all unlike what he had done to Theon, following her around like a pet, bending over when she told him to and no longer complaining of what she did.

After all, Ramsay Bolton was long since gone. There was only someone’s Bitch, now.


	5. Chapter 5

For any that are interested, I had Jason record his chapters for your audio pleasure. I hope you enjoy it! =D

Chapter 1

<https://app.box.com/s/yplkfqad5mif737su6l6ca0s4b53sz0d>

 

Chapter 2

<https://app.box.com/s/m9ax4ozb6pjbe1pkmnepftummrzlnpd5>

 

Chapter 3

<https://app.box.com/s/uez4ehcvw5tzzujqbv35orjiij7wkhdf>

 

Chapter 4

<https://app.box.com/s/1mvy8w28l3c3hp7crjulcmjawcj3tjpr>

 


End file.
